


A Routine of Escape

by memories_child



Category: The X-Files RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memories_child/pseuds/memories_child
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the tabloids break the story on his marriage, David meets Gillian in the West End.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Routine of Escape

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** This is RPF. If you don't like it, please don't read it. These are fictional characters and any resemblance to living people, while intentional, is made purely on the premise that anyone reading this knows I am making it up.

When her phone vibrates against her hip she knows before looking that it’s David. She’d heard the news that morning; the lurid headlines of the tabloids flashing their gaudy story to the world. She’d known it was only a matter of time until he was found out; had warned him so many times (warned him even while she was fucking him) that one day he’d get caught, but her heart still aches for him.

She reads the message while juggling a bottle of milk, a high chair and Mark’s lunch. What can she say? _It’s your fault_ , while true, is not the response a friend should give. _I warned you_ smacks of condescension. She settles for _Bottle of wine, vegan fudge cake, shoulder to cry on?_ And isn’t surprised when his ‘yes’ comes seconds later.

* * * *

They meet at a little place in the West End she knows, where it’s quiet and they aren’t likely to be disturbed. When he walks in the air pulls itself from her lungs. He is utterly dejected, the way she’s never seen him before. He walks like a dead man, keeping his eyes locked on the floor in front of his feet. Before she knows what she’s doing she has him wrapped in his arms, her fingers stroking his hair as she murmurs in his ear.

“Not the best circumstances, but it’s good to see you.” He avoids her gaze.

“It’s been too long.”

He is quiet as they eat, his food half untouched on his plate. She feels, for the first time in she doesn’t know how long, uncomfortable in his presence. The words she reaches for stumble to a halt on her tongue. She is acutely aware of her oversized belly, the child kicking inside. Aware of her partner waiting for her at home, her happy family life. She is aware of how strongly everything she has contrasts with him.

“Do you want to get out of here?” She finally asks. He nods.

* * * *

Before the door to the hotel room is fully closed her hands slide to his neck, pulling his mouth down to hers. He tastes like Vancouver, fifteen years ago, of youth and hope. He smells of rain and wake up calls; of night and snow. He feels like everything she should have left behind.

His tongue slides into her mouth as he runs his hands down her back, around the curve of her ass. He pulls her closer and she feels his erection against the swell of her stomach. If she was able to think she would push him away, tell him that this is wrong; that they have families to think about and marriages to save. But she has never been able to think around him, not when he looks at her the way he’s looking at her now; not when his tongue dips into her mouth and his hand slides up her thigh.

When his fingers brush her clit she trembles like she hasn’t been touched in years. He smiles into her kiss and his fingers stroke, squeeze, push into her and stroke again. It is a dance they are both familiar with, a dance that began when he ran his fingers through her hair as she teased his cock from base to tip, fifteen years ago. A dance that will continue, for as long as they both let it.

It feels like time has stopped for them, in this hotel room in West London. His fingers dance over her goose-bump skin and he is gentle, so gentle as he slides into her. His muscles roll and ripple underneath her fingers. He increases his pace, thrusting into her as his bare arms support him on the bed. She has always loved his arms, their strength and suppleness, the electric touch she got when she brushed past him bronzed in the LA sun, blue sleeves rolled up.

His arms give way when she climaxes, stifling his name on her tongue. He falls into her, calling his name like a drowning man.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” he berates himself after he comes.

“For what it’s worth,” she murmurs as she lies wrapped in his arms “she loves you anyway.”


End file.
